s him to array his characters for the summer novel in the
airy draperies suitable to the season. It is only good art that the cover
of the novel and the covers of the characters shall be in harmony. He
knows, also, that the characters in the winter novel must be adequately
protected. We speak, of course, of the season stories. Novels that are to
run through a year, or maybe many years, and are to set forth the
passions and trials of changing age and varying circumstance, require
different treatment and wider millinery knowledge. They are naturally
more expensive. The wardrobe required in an all-round novel would
bankrupt most of us.

But to confine ourselves to the season novel, it is strange that some one
has not invented the patent adjustable story that with a slight change
would do for summer or winter, following the broad hint of the
publishers, who hasten in May to throw whatever fiction they have on hand
into summer clothes. The winter novel, by this invention, could be easily
fitted for summer wear. All the novelist need do would be to change the
clothes of his characters. And in the autumn, if the novel proved
popular, he could change again, with the advantage of being in the latest
fashion. It would only be necessary to alter a few sentences in a few of
the stereotype pages. Of course this would make necessary other slight
alterations, for no kind-hearted writer would be cruel to his own
creations, and expose them to the vicissitudes of the seasons. He could
insert "rain" for "snow," and "green leaves" for "skeleton branches,"
make a few verbal changes of that sort, and regulate the thermometer. It
would cost very little to adjust the novel in this way to any season. It
is worth thinking of.

And this leads to a remark upon the shocking indifference of some
novelists to the ordinary comfort of their characters. In practical life
we cannot, but in his realm the novelist can, control the weather. He can
make it generally pleasant. We do not object to a terrific thunder-shower
now and then, as the sign of despair and a lost soul, but perpetual
drizzle and grayness and inclemency are tedious to the reader, who has
enough bad weather in his private experience. The English are greater
sinners in this respect than we are. They seem to take a brutal delight
in making it as unpleasant as possible for their fictitious people. There
is R--b--rt 'lsm--r', for example. External trouble is piled on to the
internal. The char